Where We End Up
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: This is my rendition of April's exit from the show. I cried while writing this, it's not happy, but in my opinion - no exit would be. It was heartbreaking, but I wanted to give April and Japril the grace they deserved. I don't know if this will provide closure to you guys, but it did help me.


**APRIL**

Life is the longest thing we experience. It encompasses our existence, it's the blanket that shrouds us on both warm and cold days, it's a tattoo; a reminder that we're here, we're breathing, and no matter how you spin it - we're together.

Life is the longest thing we know, yet it's short. It is so short.

100 years isn't enough. 50 years isn't enough. And 36 years, well, that definitely isn't enough.

I'd been with my therapist this morning, for a double session. We had a lot to unpack, and I carved out the whole morning for self-healing and reflection. My life has been full of a lot of that lately, and it's been far from pleasant. It's unpleasant, but eye-opening. It's forced me to see facets of myself I've never accepted, ones I never knew existed.

I've never cried harder than I do sitting in that office, hunched over in an armchair, rocking back and forth. When I cry, I'm used to being comforted. Placated almost, soothed. But sitting there, across from my therapist who wants the best for me but is far from warm, I'm forced to look at my misgivings and mistakes head-on. There's no one there to smooth over the rough spots, no one there to tell me it isn't my fault, because the truth is - a lot of it is my fault.

I don't cry just because I'm sad, though. I cry as a release of emotions, a release of anger, frustration, feelings pent up over years of putting a lid on them. I cry because I see myself at my core, and hope that puts me closer to God. Our relationship still has not yet mended. I can't help but wonder if it ever will, but I know that will come in due time.

My therapist tells me it's important to take things slow. Baby steps, don't bite off more than you can chew. It's a method I'm still learning how to perfect.

I spend a lot of time talking about Samuel, which is strange and foreign. In everyday life, I never say his name. I can't remember the last time I did outside of that office. I even try to avoid thinking about him, which makes me feel the worst I've ever felt. I try not to think about my own son. Said like that, I'm evil. The true embodiment of a horrible mother.

But the doctor says that isn't true. Look at Harriet. Look at how perfect she is - how loved, how happy. I'm the furthest thing from a horrible mother.

My agenda by not thinking about Samuel is simple - it's a Band-aid. A quick fix, a coverup. If I don't think about him, I don't have to feel the pain of losing him. I don't have to remember his slight weight in my arms, or the way he gripped my finger before finally letting go. I don't have to hear the sounds of Jackson's teardrops hitting the shoulder of my hospital gown, or the ache between my legs that remained for weeks after with nothing to show for it.

If he never existed, I was never hurt by his absence. If he was never here, he could never leave.

Progress is slow on that front. We've talked about possibly asking Jackson to join me for a few sessions, to talk about our late son. I haven't yet worked up the gall to ask, though I think the time might come soon.

He hasn't been happy with me lately. Well, he hasn't been happy with me for a long time. Since I moved out, things have been strained and separated. I'm not sure if that's worse or better than when we were living together, fucking every night without so much as eye contact to follow. It wasn't a one-way street, though. I'd slip into his room just as often as he'd slip into mine. When he came through that door, I'd push the covers off and lift the skirt of my nightgown, ready for the weight of his body on mine. When I'd seek him out, I'd pad across the carpet and watch him sit against the headboard, ready to welcome me onto his lap. We didn't speak about it for months on end. Months.

I suppose I'll spend even longer talking about it with my doctor. The fact that, when he came, he'd wrap his arms around my waist, bury his face in my neck, and bite me - and only then would I be forced to the surface my consciousness. With that small amount of pain, I'd be reminded where I was and what I was doing. It took a twinge of discomfort to snap me back to reality, to make me feel something, and I'm sure that speaks volumes about where I was mentally. Where I still am, or might be.

Going numb is my defense mechanism, but I never used to do it with Jackson. When we were married, I was raw, vulnerable - I let him see me. He's the only person in the world who saw my damages and loved me for them, who kissed them better and healed me, who worked to see me back to myself when I broke.

I'm the only one who's ever seen him cry. And not just when Samuel died, either. He broke his walls down for me, and on especially hard days at work, he'd come home and lay on me, letting me stroke his head and calm his fears. It wrecks me to know we'll never get back there, never be each other's sanctuary again.

She told me to write him a letter - doesn't matter how long, and it's not one I ever have to let him see, if I don't want. It's for me, mostly. So, I do. I write him a very short letter and keep it in my purse at all times. I'm not quite sure why it stays there, but it does. It makes me feel better on days when the separation stings a little more than usual.

I don't only talk about Jackson, our past marriage, or our lost child in therapy, though. I talk about having a gun pointed in my face, about being fired twice from a job I love, about always being seen as the weakest link no matter how many times I prove myself. I talk about being bullied as a child, a teen, and as an adult. I talk about always feeling ostracized, even in the workplace I call home. Jackson was my life raft away from that feeling, and without him I'm even more stranded than I was before. To them, I'm a leper. There will always be something about me they find incredibly distasteful.

I try and work through those problems, too. And we spent the majority of today talking about how my friendships never last, and who's to blame for that.

It was a heavy day, so to release the tension from my mind, I head to the mall before going into work. I want to buy Harriet a new outfit, and I could use a couple of shirts myself. It'll make me feel better, at least put my mind a bit at ease, to do something lighthearted and meaningless like this.

I'm in Baby Gap when my cell phone rings, and I pull it out to see Tom Koracick calling. I roll my eyes slightly, knowing the conversation will go on too long, and screen the call. But in typical Tom fashion, he calls again right after the ringing stops. To get him out of my hair, I pick up while standing in front of a rack of tiny jeans.

"Hi."

"Hey, there," he says. "Checking in. How was the shrink this morning?"

"You know, this isn't AA," I say. "You're not my sponsor. You don't always have to check in on me."

"Don't I?" he says. "Who's to say I just don't like doing it?"

"Me," I say.

He laughs and scoffs simultaneously. "You can pretend I was just a lay, April Kepner, but we both know how far that is from the truth. So, spill. Unless you'd rather do it over drinks later."

"I don't," I say, with a small smile.

"Then, I'm waiting," he says.

I sigh. "I don't know. We talked about my friendships and how I've never been good at keeping them."

"And…?"

"And it's not something I wanna get into in the middle of the mall," I say.

"Shopping in the middle of the day?" he says, amused. "Aren't you supposed to be on the clock?"

"It's my lunch break," I say. "I'm heading to the hospital after."

"Alright," he says. "Well, maybe I'll see you there. We'll have coffee, or something. You're not getting out of our little catch-up."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, then hear a strange sound coming from the main entrance. I squint through the glass doors, but see nothing, so I look back at the jeans. "I gotta go," I say. "My phone's about to die and I'm trying to finish up here."

We hang up and I slip my phone back into my purse, where it sits at 2% - I hadn't been lying. I flip through the jeans until I find Harriet's size, then hear yet another commotion near the mezzanine outside.

"What was that sound?" another customer says, inching closer to me.

"I don't know," I say, musing. With the jeans in one hand, I take a few steps towards the door and find people milling about in a strange, huddled manner.

With creased eyebrows, I stand near the doors and suddenly hear screaming. With panic flooding my gut, I'm frozen in place as a loud bang reverberates through the open area and people fall to the ground in fear. I join them, right in the doorway with the glass windows, and crouch on my knees while looking for the source.

"Was that a gunshot?!" the woman beside me shrills.

"I don't know," I say. "I don't know."

I hear screams from far away, of someone shrieking, "My wife! He shot my wife!"

I stand to my full height immediately, despite the woman's grip on my wrist trying to pull me back down. "Let go," I say, shaking her off.

"Where are you going? Stay down!"

"I'm a doctor," I say. "Someone might be dying!"

I run out of Baby Gap and follow the shouting. I see the people near the escalator, a man holding his wife who's bleeding heavily from her abdomen, and I start running towards them while another spray of gunshots sounds through the area and everyone screams.

I keep running though, because I can't stop. I'm a surgeon, and I went to war twice. I can do this, I'm trained for this, this is what I'm meant to do.

"Get down!" I hear. "Get the fuck down and stop moving!"

I'm almost there, though, and I can help her. That wound needs pressure, and I know what to do. I'm a doctor, this is my passion, my mission, I have purpose here.

"I said, get the fuck down!"

I don't have a chance to get down, though, because a piercing pain appears in my thigh that turns it to fire. The blood start immediately, and before I have a chance to blink, I'm losing more blood than the woman who I was on the way to save. I fall to the ground like the shooter had initially wanted, but not voluntarily, and black out with the baby jeans still in my hand.

…

When I come to, I'm in a lot of pain, with Jackson's face inches from mine. We're in motion, I'm on a gurney - in an ambulance. We're moving fast.

"Hey," he says, and his eyes are wide and deranged, like they get when he's extremely worried. "Hey. Hey, you're okay. I'm right here."

I know I'm not okay. He wouldn't look like that if I were okay.

"It hurts," I say, voice croaking.

"I know," he says. "But you're gonna be fine."

"What happened?"

"There was a shooter at the mall," he says. "10 casualties, 23 injured."

His mouth is tense when he says it, and I'm gutted to know that's the case.

"Gun control," I manage to say.

"Yeah, you fuckin' said it," he growls. "The motherfucker shot himself, too. But right now, we need to be thinking about you. Alright? We're gonna get you fixed up."

"What happened?" I ask again.

"You were shot," Jackson says. "Femoral. You're bleeding, but it's okay. We're gonna get there and it's gonna be fine. You're gonna be just fine."

"I was in Baby Gap," I say, and my vision starts to waver. "Jeans. I had jeans for her."

A small, sad smile crosses his lips when he reaches to the foot of the gurney and holds them up. Unlike they were before, crisp and bejeweled, now they're soaked in blood. My blood.

I start to cry because of it, and he sets them back down, out of my line of vision.

"We'll get her new ones," he says, and leans forward to caress my face. "You know she'll pick off those jewels, anyway. We'll get her a hundred pairs, alright? Alright? Look at me." I open my eyes and stare into his - glistening and blue. "Alright?"

"Alright," I whisper.

I'm fading fast. There's pressure on the wound on my thigh, but it's not enough. Judging by the look in his eyes, we both know it's not enough.

"Jackson," I say, and he bites his lower lip. "Can you hold my hand?"

He takes a quick, deep breath and does as I ask. He takes one of my hands with both of his and squeezes, bringing it to his lips to kiss the knuckles. I can't remember the last time he showed me so much softness, so much heart.

"I've been talking - to someone," I say, gathering my strength to say what needs to be said. I won't leave here without saying it. I won't allow it to stay unfinished forever. "A therapist," I continue. "I've talked about Sammy. It's helped me a lot, and I think you should try, too." I nod slightly. "It'll help you. It'll put you at peace."

"We'll go together, then," he says.

I open my eyes into his. "I want you to talk to someone," I say, and hear how my voice shakes.

"Stop it," he says. "I'm going with you. We'll go together. He's our son. Both of ours."

I inhale, and my breath rattles. Tears well in his eyes and threaten to spill over, but he keeps them at bay. His jaw is set firmly, teeth gritted. He is positive to the point of desperation that I'm not dying today.

I can't say the same.

"Jackson," I say.

He looks at me hard and says, "No."

I take a breath, but it stops short in my throat. "It hurts," I say.

"I know," he says. "But we're gonna be there soon. I promise, we'll be there soon."

I blink at him, slow and meaningful. "Why did you come?" I ask. "You're not trauma… you're… you don't…"

"Because it's you," he says. "We got word it was you, and I jumped in the rig. I wasn't gonna let you ride alone, or with someone you don't know." He strokes my hand and comforts us both. "No, I had to be here. I needed to… to be with you. I had to be with you."

"I'm glad you're here," I say, and let my head rest fully back on the pillow. My mind is swimming now; it's hard to keep things straight. I force myself to stay even, though.

"Me, too," he says, then bends at the waist to press a firm kiss to my forehead. "April, I'm sorry. I'm sorry things aren't… the way we planned. I'm sorry I wasn't more for you, I'm sorry we didn't have the fairytale marriage you wanted."

"We did, though, for a while," I say, smiling softly. "It was beautiful, for a while. I loved being with you, Jackson."

"I loved being with you, too," he says, and the tears stream down his cheeks quicker than he can wipe them away.

"Now who's talking like I'm dying?" I ask, but there's no vim or vigor behind my tone.

"I'm sorry," he says, very quickly, trying to straighten up.

"No," I say, gently. "You can say anything you want. You can…"

We make poignant eye contact. I don't have to say what we both know, what we both can sense. That he can say goodbye. There's a lot of blood leaving my body, and I'm a small person. I can't keep up. I'm bleeding out and fading. No matter how hard I cling to him, cling to life, death is stronger. The bullet was stronger, the lack of blood more powerful. Even if we were around the corner from the hospital, which I don't think we are, I don't know how much of a chance I'd have.

"It's weird, isn't it?" I say. "My career at the hospital started with a shooting. It's come full circle."

"Don't say that," he whispers.

I look at the roof of the ambulance and don't bother to stop my tears. They slide from the corners of my eyes and drip down my temples, landing in warm puddles inside my ears.

"I'm really scared," I whisper, and realize I've begun to tremble.

"I'm here," he says, and holds my hand tighter.

"I've been fighting with God," I say, and my chin wobbles. "I've said some horrible things about Him. What if…"

"No," Jackson says. "He knows how much you love Him. He knows you, you know. Don't be worried about that. Don't… just don't. You still have a chance, April. You do."

I look at him and press my lips together, then find my way to a watery smile. "You gave me so much," I tell him.

He watches me and gives me the floor. He doesn't refute me or tell me to stop talking like that, he lets me speak. He grants me grace.

"You gave me a best friend when I'd never had one before," I say, very softly. "You showed me trust, compassion, and loyalty from another person. You had the chance to join the bullies against me, but you didn't."

He kisses my hand again, letting it stay close to his mouth.

"You showed me spontaneity," I say. "You broke me free of my mold." I swallow hard. "You gave me true love," I tell him. "I'd never known greater happiness than what I felt being your wife."

He nods. Now his chin is wobbling, too.

"You gave me a beautiful son," I say, smiling at the mention of him. "Didn't you?"

He nods quickly, lips turning down at the corners.

"And I'll hold him," I say. "I'll hold him, and tell him how much his daddy loves him." I reach up and stroke Jackson's cheek, wiping away a tear. "What do you think he'll look like, baby?"

He can't answer. He's crying too hard now, while trying to stay silent. His shoulders shake, though, and he bows his head. In a swift movement, he throws an arm over my waist and pulls himself closer, burying his face in my neck to sob.

"I think he'll have your curls," I say, answering the question for him. "Our freckles, just like Hattie does. I'll hold him, Jackson, and-and I'll sing to him… and when I touch him, he won't break."

Jackson nods fervently, squeaking sounds coming from his throat.

"And you gave me a beautiful, dynamic, kindhearted daughter," I breathe. "Who's everything I wished for and more. She's perfect, Jackson, you know how perfect she is." I stroke the back of his head slowly, dragging my fingertips down to the nape of his neck in the way he used to love. "You'll raise her right. You'll raise her to be a strong woman, I know you will. Just don't…" My voice breaks. "Please, don't let her forget me."

He sits up. His eyes are bloodshot, face flushed; his expression is determined, yet broken.

"Never, April," he says, then holds my face in his hands. "She'll always know you, and how much you love her."

I nod slightly, feeling weak. My energy is waning; I'm so tired.

He strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs and looks at me with the life we shared written behind his eyes. "I love you," he says. "I always said it too late, and never enough. But I love you. I was stupid, and I let you go. You didn't deserve how I treated you, but you need to know now how much I always loved you."

He leans forward and kisses me on the lips, gentle but full of passion.

"I love you, too," I say, holding his wrist with one hand. My eyelids are heavy; I can't keep them open for much longer. "That never changed."

"You're it for me," he says, and kisses me again. "You're it, you're the only one I'll ever love. Okay? You're the mother of my babies, you're everything. I should've figured it out sooner, I shouldn't have spent so much time-"

"It wasn't just you," I say. "I forgive you. Do you forgive me?"

He shakes his head yes and lets out a loud, heartbroken sound. He holds the top half of my body in his arms as tightly as he can, and I close my eyes for the final time while wrapped up in the only person who ever had my heart.

 **JACKSON**

They gave me her purse. The one she had with her that day - it's now sitting at my side on the couch, with Harriet on my lap. She's tired, nearly sleeping, leaning against my chest.

She knows Mommy is gone, but this is routine. She's at Daddy's, of course Mommy isn't here. What she doesn't know is that she won't be coming back.

When I go through April's purse, I find the usual things. Hand sanitizer, lip balm, makeup. Hair ties, receipts, her wallet that's meticulously organized.

But there's a slip of paper folded neatly that I don't recognize, so I take it out and unfold it. I find, at the top, it's addressed to me.

I see my name and press my lips to Harriet's curls, eyes closed. She smells just like her mother.

When I open my eyes, I read what little is written on the small sheet of paper. I read the words she wrote, the last words she'll ever give me.

 _Jackson,_

 _I hope we end up together. I really do._


End file.
